


Self Love & Understanding

by hbomba



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: 3X7, 3x8, Canon Lesbian Character, Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, Fridget, Lesbian, Masturbation, Season/Series 03, Self-Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-28 23:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hbomba/pseuds/hbomba
Summary: Franky has some impure thoughts about Bridget and brings them up in session.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between 3x7 and 3x8.

The only shame in masturbation is the shame of not doing it well.—Sigmund Freud

* * *

Life in prison was unpredictable. Every time Franky Doyle felt the confusion lifting something unexpectedly shitty happened, as it was yesterday, when Bea Smith was hauled off to the psych ward off her face. And Franky was afraid it was catching. Because she had just sent Kimmy Chang away. Not only was Kimmy a sure thing when Franky’s ache had gone untouched for quite some time, but Kimmy cared for her and Franky could have really used a friend with benefits.

But Franky couldn’t let herself go there again. Time and space apart had not strengthened their bond. If it even could be called a bond, more like a shared need to avoid being alone. Instead, when Kimmy climbed on top of her, it felt familiar and safe but it also felt stale and wrong. Even as Kimmy gyrated against her thigh and pressed kisses onto her breasts, Franky did not feel pleasure. She felt sick. She felt guilty. She felt like a piece of shit for letting Kimmy touch her again when the only person on Franky’s mind was the untouchable Bridget Westfall.

Franky pressed her head back into her pillow and groaned. She knew that she wanted Bridget but she never expected to be turned off by an ex-lover in her stead. It was stupid. The chances of Franky getting Bridget to let her guard down long enough to test their chemistry were only slight, but she hung her hopes on the slightest of chances that one day, hopefully someday soon, she’d get to release the pressure with Bridget.

Throwing her book aside, Franky’s hand came to rest on her belly. She could hear Doreen and Boomer talking in the lounge, television in the background. It hardly set the mood, but to be honest, Franky didn’t need much help where Bridget was concerned. She could feel her nipples harden as her hand moved past the elastic band of her teal track pants. Biting her lip, Franky thought about the blonde in detail; her blue eyes and the aristocratic slope of her nose, her thin lips and jawline that she couldn’t stop imagining kissing, her pert bosom, and athletic body, right down to the clunky heels she always wore to see eye to eye with her.

She imagined them in Bridget’s office, blinds closed, a sliver of sunlight squeaking in as Franky backed her against the wall with her framed credentials proudly displayed. Bridget would grunt against her mouth as she kissed her and opened her blouse with nimble fingers. And Franky, lifting Bridget onto her filing cabinet, would wrench her pants down over her hips exposing her toned thighs. Their breath would mingle between kisses, hot against her cheek, and soon those clunky shoes would be scraping against her back before falling noisily to the floor, forgotten in their tussle.

Franky’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her underwear and to her apex. Her fingers sunk into her own slick center as she dreamed of sinking into Bridget’s. She licked her lips, imagining Bridget touching her, moving against her, and kissing her back. It was a selfish fantasy. Flashes of what she wanted and what she imagined Bridget might like were emblazoned behind her eyelids as she squeezed her eyes shut.

Bridget would watch as Franky dropped to her knees, her lithe fingers drawing her panties down her thighs. She wanted to taste her, to feel how wet she had made her. She exhaled, her fingers working her own clit with purpose. She thought of Bridget, splayed on her own desk, in her office chair, holding herself up against her wall of credentials and her breath quickened. 

She imagined what Bridget might look like as she came, her neck craned back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut and it was such a convincing image that Franky came, too. Her orgasm was rough, hips jumping, thighs pumping, and ragged breaths overlapping with her fantasy.

When her breathing slowed she opened her eyes and yanked her hand from her pants. She did not feel victory, but defeat, as the same walls surrounded her and Franky remained alone. 

* * *

The next day, Franky felt her stomach’s gymnastics acutely as the guard led her to Bridget Westfall’s office for her scheduled appointment. Bridget was at her desk when the guard opened the door. She looked up and smiled at Franky in that way that she’d gotten so used to and it actually hurt. She slumped into the small armchair and exhaled as Bridget stood and walked out from behind her desk. Her hips swayed with that quiet confidence Franky was so enticed by. 

“I had a dream about ya,” she blurted. It wasn’t a lie. Franky had tons of dreams about her counselor and she’d touched herself every single time too, but yesterday was different. It was willful. It was not just a way to pass time, but a way to spend time with Bridget.

Bridget’s stopped by the corner of her desk, face slack. “What kind of dream?”

Franky smirked. “Really?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Like you need to ask.”

The psychologist exhaled. “Maybe we need to reestablish the parameters of our relationship--”

“Bullshit.” Franky leaned forward. “I know you feel it too.”

“Franky, I can’t--” There was a longing in Bridget’s voice that stoked Franky’s bravery.

“You keep saying that, but I think you mean it less and less lately.”

Bridget swallowed hard enough that Franky could see. “I could lose my job.”

“If you didn’t meet me here would things be different?”

Franky could see the inner turmoil written all over her face as she did everything but squirm in her seat. “Franky, I can’t have this conversation with you.”

“You tell me to open up, to talk about my feelings well, here I am, Gidget. Who am I supposed to talk about this with?”

“You’re right.” Bridget moved to her green arm chair and sat down casually. Franky waited for more. The rest. There had to be more. Bridget cleared her throat. “So, tell me about your dream.”

Franky couldn’t hide her surprise or utter glee that she felt momentarily. “Really?”

“You want to tell me, right? That’s why you’re here.”

“I didn’t come here to talk dirty to ya.” 

Bridget sat quietly, waiting for her to say something. It was frustrating but also reassuring that someone could be so patient and kind. “What would you like me to do, Franky?”

“Fuck if I know anymore.” She sighed. “I’m not used to having to ask how a girl is feeling.”

A quiet laugh escaped Bridget’s lips. “I’m not surprised.”

Franky settled back into her chair feeling a little satisfied with her acknowledgement. Doyle wasn’t someone who needed being reaffirmed often, but Bridget’s opinion seemed to matter more than most others lately.

“Does it bother you that I think of you that way?”

“Listen, Franky. We all have our fantasies…”

“Even you?”

She bowed her head. “Frankyyy…” She said it in that shy way she’d perfected during their many exchanges in session. 

Nodding her head, Franky smiled but before she could say anything more there was a knock at the door.

“Ms. Westfall,” Mr. Jackson said poking his head in the door. “Ferguson asked to see you when you’re done with Doyle.”

Bridget looked from Will to Franky and nodded. “Give us a minute to wrap things up.”

“Sure,” he said, pulling the door shut. 

She took a deep breath and focused on the other woman. “Franky, I’m very flattered that you’ve taken an interest in me--”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t fuckin’ believe ya.”

“I’m sorry.” Her apology stung more than a good bitchslap.

“Are ya? Really?” Franky shook her head and stood up.

“Franky…”

“Nuh. Keep the platitudes, Doc. I’m outta here.” 

Franky yanked the door open and scowled at Mr. Jackson. “What?” She said bitterly when he looked at her as she walked down the hallway.

The card reader beeped as he swiped his pass over it and the door unlocked. “Having a bad day, Doyle?”

Franky scoffed and walked through the doorway before him, continuing down the hallway. “You could say that.”

He didn’t dare say anything else as he escorted her back to H block. Mr. Jackson had surely learned in his five plus years at Wentworth, not to fuck with a woman having a bad day. Then again every day in prison was pretty bad. Maybe he just knew not to fuck with her. Whatever the case, Mr. Jackson gave her the gift of silence all the way back to her bunk.

She walked into the tiny space and let out a frustrated sigh. Home sweet fucking home. Just another day in Wentworth, another humiliation. She fell back onto her bed like a tree toppling to a lumberjack. The bed was hard and it stole her breath as she landed heavier than she’d expected. 

Franky had already told Bridget her deepest darkest secret and she’d be foolish to think that didn’t factor into her decision to hide from her feelings, too. Bridget had her shit together and Franky was a world-class fuck-up. She was trying her damndest to fix that now, but retrofitting one’s fucked-up life is something that takes a lot of change and with Bridget’s help Franky had definitely made some progress. She wondered if it was enough, if she deserved someone like Bridget. But near as she could figure they both deserved better than the lonely existences they seemed to be living.

She heard the girls gathering in the lounge and hugged her pillow tightly, sighing again. Prison was about making the best of a bad situation and maintaining hope every time shit got worse. This time, unfortunately, Franky knew if she hadn’t thrown a pan of hot oil on that dickhead chef she never would have met Bridget and that would not have been any better. 

This time, the best of a bad situation was waiting for another woman to come to the same realization. Franky could be patient--it wasn’t a strong suit, but it could be done--and she hoped Bridget would be brave enough to do the same.


	2. By-the-Book

Prison was a terrifying place. Bridget Westfall knew that from the scores of women she’d counseled over the course of her career, she knew from the frightened barristers' faces as they crossed the threshold, and the sad faces of friends and family at the close of visitor hours, but after her last session Bridget was beginning to understand it first-hand. 

Joan Ferguson had just grilled her about Franky again, something that quite frankly lacked imagination, but also gave her pause. Did she know about Meg Jackson? Was she just waiting to deliver the coup de grace at Franky’s parole hearing or just making one last desperate swoop? 

There was a vested interest by the warden to punish Franky Doyle. She was unsure of the source of her sour feelings but it was obvious, at least to Bridget, that Ferguson had a vendetta that included keeping the source of her own misery (Franky) close enough to continue irritating her.

Ironically, she was Bridget’s favorite inmate at that moment, having captured her attention right away. Dimpled Franky, with her sad eyes and overburdened tank tops, her tattoos and long legs, her shaggy mane and smoky eye liner. Franky with her wet dreams and confessions.

“Fuck.” Bridget sighed as she sat at her desk. Things felt impossibly complicated. 

As if they weren’t complicated before. She groaned. Franky showed immense potential for reforming and Bridget wanted to give her the keys to success. However, she felt the spark between them long before Franky poured her heart out. It was one thing for Bridget to sit across from the younger woman and listen to her struggle with emotional scars, it was another for her to manage her own feelings in the wake of Franky’s confessions. 

She’d never let herself be charmed by an inmate before nor found herself attracted to one until she met Franky, her hard exterior and tender center intriguing her. Bridget Westfall was a by-the-book therapist. She stayed up on theories and new techniques with seminars and papers and she took her professional oaths very seriously. Especially the one that said “thou shalt not fuck your patients.” 

But Franky came in hard, trying to unnerve her with sexual innuendo from the start and Bridget didn’t do much to deflect her advances. She knew it was a power-play but Bridget was more interested in watching Franky try to outwit her than bothering to correct her behavior. She had pressed and pressed until she got Bridget to admit she was a lesbian and from then on Franky was incorrigible. The sparkle in Franky’s eye had given her goosebumps. It was an unexpected reaction, as she had come to expect such encounters working in prisons for the better part of twenty years. 

Her job was incredibly isolating. There were few opportunities to forge meaningful friendships because most of her work was done alone. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen. And honestly it was easy to avoid becoming entangled with her clients because many of them were mentally ill. It was an occupational hazard for a psychologist. And as delightfully weird working with the criminally insane was, sane prisoners were much less taxing. Mental illness was common among inmates as prison tended to be society’s dumping ground for the mentally ill. However, Franky didn’t show any hallmarks of a disorder. She was angry at the world but, Bridget reckoned she had few good reasons for that. She was smarter than the average prisoner and certainly more attractive, and Bridget was caught up in all of it. 

Making it worse was a shitty childhood that would take years to unpack in therapy. As a psychologist she was taught to resist the urge to save someone. That wasn’t her function--she was there to mentor and guide but the real work had to be done by the patient. So far she was convinced that Franky was doing the work. She was dealing with her anger, processing better, and looking deserving of parole--at least on paper. She was also looking like someone Bridget couldn’t deny anymore.

Franky came to her quite legitimately. She was open and honest and Bridget had shut her down. She did so assuming that Franky was trying to get a rise out of her as she had done in the past. Franky did not handle the rejection well, which was no surprise to the psychologist as it was rooted in the deep trust issues she had with her parents. Now, as it probably was then, her reaction was to shut down and shut out the person that rejected her. In Bridget’s case, Franky was prone to mild tantrums which usually blew over by their next session. She hoped that would be the case again.

She hadn’t intended to reject Franky, but she was at a loss for how to respond so she went back to that book--the professionalism one--and took a giant step back. She wasn’t afraid of Franky, in fact she felt perfectly safe with the inmate. Up until now, Bridget had managed to keep it under wraps, reminding herself that she was the authority figure, even though it felt like Franky was in charge. She was older and wiser but somehow Franky commanded whatever room she was in. 

Enigmatic and charming, Franky made her want to burn her professionalism book (and her bra) but Bridget could never admit that to her. She didn’t need to. Franky was incredibly astute and she read Bridget all the way. That’s what frustrated Franky the most--she couldn’t have the psychologist despite their obvious and mutual attraction. 

Later that night at home, Bridget was transcribing session notes from the day, when she came to the page with Franky’s name on it and it was blank, she paused remembering what had happened. She stared at the blank page, struggling with what to write for the day’s notes and started to type slowly. Every word that crossed her screen was wrong. Franky wasn’t in good spirits, she was twisted up over Bridget and she handled her all wrong. Staring at the blinking cursor she typed “transference” and pushed away from the table. Standing in her kitchen, a hand on her hip, the other worrying her jaw, Bridget paced.

She couldn’t hide from her feelings any longer. It wasn’t fair to Franky, first and foremost, but it also unethical to continue to treat her. She closed her laptop and shut the lights off before retiring to her bedroom.

She tried to read but with every third word she forgot the two that came before it. Shutting her bedside lamp off, Bridget pulled the duvet up to her chin. Now came the hard part--sleep. The wind rattled the branches outside her window and she shivered. She tried everything to avoid thinking about Franky but at every sadistic turn of her brain, she was right back there contemplating Franky and her fantasies. 

Bridget shivered again but this time she wasn’t cold. The goosebumps raised on her body told another story. The more she tried not to focus on her own feelings, the deeper she went down the rabbit hole of Franky’s.

Bridget wondered how she saw her. Were her dreams elaborate representations of reality or were they like everyday machinations? Was it a slow burn or was it fast and furious? Did she see Bridget in high heels and lingerie or perhaps nothing at all? 

“Shit,” she gasped. Running a hand over her face, she stared at her ceiling in the dark.

Bridget was walking a fine line with herself. Her attraction to Franky was undeniable but acting on it, even without Franky’s physical presence, felt wrong. She crossed her legs tightly and tried to throw cold water on the firepit at her center.

She squeezed her eyes shut and, before things got any weirder, Bridget took a deep breath. Her mind began to wander again and soon she was back to thinking about Franky. She imagined Franky, dimples blazing, standing in the doorway of her bedroom in her tank top and tracksuit.

She swallowed hard, trying to shake her image out of her head.

But Bridget’s phantom Franky, much like the real Franky, was bold. She pushed off the door frame and walked toward her slowly but not without purpose. Franky’s tongue clicked and Bridget shivered again.

* * *

Shameful was the dawn light that spread across her bed the next morning. Bridget regretted that she didn’t meet Franky under other circumstances, she felt abashed for her improper thoughts, she was embarrassed for taking it to the next level the night before, but most of all, if she had to give it all up, she hated that last night was only a fantasy. 

There was a chapter in that professionalism book that explicitly directed her to cease contact with the patient and refer them out of her practice and she knew that was what she had to do. She spoke to her superior and made arrangements with her colleague to take over care before sending for Franky. She knew it would be painful, but she wasn’t prepared for just how painful. When she told Franky of her plan to transfer her to the other psychotherapist she was met with fierce resistance and pained puppy dog eyes.

When Franky had left her office, Bridget sat in her chair heavily and sighed. She compounded the pain of rejection by not even giving the inmate a solid reason for casting her aside when she believed their repore. Bridget had let Franky down the same way so many had before. 

* * *

Bridget had a lot of time to think about Franky in the days that followed. In fact, that was all she seemed to do. She worried, mostly, struggling with if she’d made the right decision or not but she also felt anger for not being able to explore things with Franky. When Franky showed up unexpectedly for a cancelled session, Bridget stuttered, almost inviting her in but instead she sent her away again.

She felt physically ill having to reject her again. Closing the door to her office, she hugged her sides and backed herself into the corner of her office--the very same corner that Franky had broken down in, and shared her secrets with Bridget. Everything about the space reminded her of Franky and the last few months of sessions.

Franky Doyle was a legend inside Wentworth and she had packed a bag and checked in to the space inside Bridget’s head. She sat at her desk and stared at that corner again. She imagined Franky there, pained expression and all, pouring her heart out and she felt like a coward hiding from her in her office. Being honest was paramount and Bridget couldn’t deny what she felt. 

She waited until after lunch to go to the kitchen, hoping to find Franky alone, and there she was finishing up her shift. She watched her from the doorway for a time, steeling herself for the moment that was about to occur.

She wasn’t overjoyed to see Bridget, that was obvious, but Franky was still stinging from being rejected herself. Bridget could feel her cheeks pinken as she explained what transference was to Franky. And when the Franky finally understood that her affections were not unrequited she slowly stalked toward Bridget.

Bridget thought about her professionalism book again and imagined dropping it into the deep fryer. Her heart pounded in her ears, pulse quickening with each step Franky took. They were on the precipice of some very real emotions and she owed it to Franky to be careful with her heart. As she turned to walk away, Bridget felt the fire of what could be as Franky’s eyes burned into her back. 

* * *

“Come on, Smiles.” Franky sighed. “It’s all I have.”

Linda Miles looked down at the palm full of cash for a long moment. She nodded. “But if you get nicked--”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She jerked her head. “Let’s go, then.” 

Miles swept her card across the white plastic reader and the door beeped as it unlocked.

“So the rumors are true.” Miles smirked at Franky.

“I just need some counselling.”

“Is that what you call it?” She chuckled. 

“Ha ha.” Franky gritted her teeth, annoyed by the officer. 

Franky felt anticipation start to bubble up as they made their way to Bridget’s office. One last corridor and then they were standing in front of the door with the placard that read Ms. B. Westfall. Waiting for Smiles to knock was the hardest part of the whole trip. She heard Bridget’s muffled voice say “come in” and officer Miles opened the door.

“Franky Doyle is here to see you, Ms. Westfall.”

Bridget looked at Franky, her mouth slightly agape. She refocused on Linda. “Thank you.”

When Miles had shut the door, Bridget stood and spoke quietly, wringing her hands. “Franky--”

“You don’t get to do that,” Franky snapped as she took a step towards Bridget.

“Do what?” She asked, confused.

“Tell me you want me and then tell me it can’t happen.” Her breast heaved with the pressure of her message.

Bridget bowed her head. “Franky, it’s more complicated than that and you know it.”

“Maybe, but I like you a lot, Gidget. And I think you like me too.”

“We can’t--”   


“Maybe not right now,” Franky said. “But if I get parole--”

“I will do everything in my power to make sure that happens but Franky, what if you don’t get it?”

“Fuck!” Franky bounced a fist off her desk. She looked at Bridget with regret shining in her eyes. “I’m sick of rules. I’m sick of bed times. Of work detail and group showers. I want a normal life. I want you.”

Bridget swallowed. “Franky--”   


“Don’t say no. Just tell me there’s a chance.”

Bridget nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly.

Exhaling, Franky threw her head back and grinned at the ceiling. Stepping into Bridget’s space, Franky reached out for her hand. The psychologist’s fingers threaded with her own and she leaned in to press her lips tenderly against Bridget’s.

The soft pressure of Franky’s lips against her own made Bridget weak in the knees. She took a step back and braced herself on her desk.

“It’s okay,” Franky grinned, putting her hands on Bridget’s waist. “You’re not my shrink anymore.”

“Shhh,” Bridget shushed Franky as she leaned in for another kiss, placing her index finger against Franky’s lips. 

Franky took a step back and nodded. “But there’s a chance.” She wagged a finger at Bridget and smiled. “I’ll take it.”


End file.
